


Monday to Sunday

by Parhelion



Category: Nero Wolfe - Stout
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prison, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-17
Updated: 2009-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Parhelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first week of freedom is supposed to be the critical one. (A sequel to "Iron House")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday to Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> This is a requested sequel to "Iron House" and won't make much sense if you haven't read that story.

Early on Monday, the day I was released, I got a nice, long lecture on being a good little Archie Goodwin from our latest warden at Mannerheim Maximum Security. I looked grave, nodded lots, and said how truly, deeply grateful I was to the governor and citizens of New York State for my pardon. Then I got a glare from the guard in the room, who was an old acquaintance and suspected me of being a smart-ass. He was right.

On Monday, I also got a suit of ugly clothes and some shoes you could walk in for at least ten miles before the soles wore through. I got a cheap suitcase, a change of underwear, and a twenty dollar bill slipped to me courtesy of a certain someone from the outside. I got told a lot by the bulls that they would see me back soon. I got my paperwork. I got my freedom.

Monday, I walked out the front gate of the Iron House and looked around. For the first time in seven years, I was seeing a blue sky without walls around it. Parked beside the curb in front of me, I also saw a fancy automobile - some sort of sedan - and knew without checking who would be in back, waiting for me. I still had the fun of knocking on the rear window and watching him scowl as he cranked it down. Ever since he'd switched from long-term lag to wrongly convicted civilian, he'd been avoiding anything that might lead to sweat.

His first words to the newly freed man were, "That suit is abysmal."

"I can do better, since someone spotted me twenty bucks. Maybe you could introduce me to your tailor?" The chalk-striped blue suit coat he was wearing was bold but businesslike, much like the way Nero Wolfe had moved in on a deal back in the pen.

As for the man himself, he grunted. "You may not wish to commit yourself until you have seen what the young men are wearing in Manhattan this year. Get in."

I did, next to him in back. Some guy I didn't recognize was driving. When I glanced at the back of our driver's neck, Wolfe told me, "Jack will be giving you lessons to refresh your knowledge of controlling these mechanical contrivances."

Of course he was going to start right out by deciding how everything would go, now that we were both free of Mannerheim. I made a note to discuss this with him as soon as there were no ears around that I didn't recognize. Right now, Wolfe was getting a break because of the ride, the twenty, and the fashion advice.

Our long drive through green fields back to Manhattan was mostly silent, which was okay since we were both busy. I looked around to enjoy the scenery, and Wolfe clutched at the seat back in front of him, which was mildly hilarious since Jack drove the way my grandmother would have driven if automobiles had been around while she was.

Once back at Wolfe's new place in Manhattan, I still didn't talk much because I was busy eating a steak and french fries cooked by some nice older guy named Fritz. He had that sensitive air of a safe cracker or counterfeiter around him and would have lasted in Mannerheim for either two days or twenty years, depending. By the time I had tried his apple pie, I was betting on twenty years. After finishing a second piece, I said thanks, went upstairs to my new room, and took a long, hot shower. Then I waited.

When I was tired of waiting, I went down the hall to what I figured had to be the door of Wolfe's bedroom and knocked. After he opened the door and glared, I stepped inside. He let me past him, which told me all I really needed to know.

Still, there are courtesies to be observed, even between former cell mates. So I started with, "Most of my welcome back was good, but something was missing. Any second now, I'll remember what that something might be." Putting my forefinger to my chin, I looked pensive. "Oh, yeah. That's what it was. Did you mean to do the job yourself, or did you spot me twenty bucks so I could go out and get someone else to take care of the problem?"

"Preposterous as it is, freedom only seems to make you worse." Then he reached out to grasp my chin with one of his fat, strong hands. I grinned. He kept going.

The last of what I got on Monday was one hell of a working over from Wolfe. Aside from my freedom, it was the best part of my day.

The next five days passed quickly, what with the driving lessons, the typing lessons, and my learning that anyone who is a genius fixer in prison can find interesting and challenging employment as a free man. Good thing I hadn't let my bookkeeping slide.

Just in case Wolfe might some day need another kind of help, I took more lessons, these meant to polish what I had already learned in Mannerheim. My knuckles got bruised, and I bought a whetstone. If it hadn't been so very illegal, someone might have arranged for my having target practice, too, but neither Wolfe nor I would ever do anything illegal now that we were out of prison and thoroughly reformed. Our quiet domestic lives attested to this.

Sunday, my first day off, I went out to see the town. On Sunday, I got to wear my snappy new linen suit in public. On Sunday, I got to discover if I had forgotten all the basics of how to move across the dance floor in the past seven years, which, it turned out, I had not.

That Sunday, a young lady of determined character, who was out trying to forget her recent fiancée, took pity on me and taught me the latest steps. In exchange, I gave her a sympathetic ear and kept my mouth shut enough that she didn't notice what kind of guy she had in her arms and on her hands. Later, I bought her dinner. Later still, she took me back to her place, told me about her roommate's trip to the Catskills, and enlisted my help in forgetting her fiancée even more.

Late that Sunday, I came back to the brownstone house that Wolfe had bought for himself using some mysterious source of funds that, of course, I know nothing about. After letting myself in the front door and bolting it behind me, I went to my new room, stripped, and showered. Then I went to Wolfe's room, knocked, and entered.

If his bedroom was a shrine to not being behind bars, that big, luxurious bed, with all the black and yellow silk bedclothes, was the room's altar. There was plenty of room for me to go over and sit on the edge of the mattress next to where he reclined until he lowered the latest book he was reading and studied me.

His first word was, "Well?"

"Hurrah. I am a free man. Even from you."

His lips twitched maybe an eight of an inch. Without all the practice in the close quarters of a cell, I wouldn't even have seen the gesture, let alone known it was ironic. He waited to hear if I had more words to add.

"Do you ever wish you were back in the Iron House?" I asked at last.

"No. However, I do often wish for boundaries, or simplicity, or certainty. Prisons can provide illusions of them all."

I considered this. "So much for simplicity. And I was never much for boundaries. Certainty will have to do." Pulling his covers back, I swung my legs up into his bed.

The rest of our discussion was mostly silent and required some time for me to make a certain point, as tired as I was. Still, I was glad I hadn't bothered getting dressed again. Matters got sloppy.

That discussion was the last of my Sunday off. Even counting the freedom, it was the best part of my day.


End file.
